


like water in your hands

by kitseybarbours



Series: stay with me [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Cis Martin Blackwood, Confessions, Crying, Drinking, First Time, Front Hole Sex, M/M, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pre-The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), The Magnus Archives Season 3, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, mag 119: Stranger And Stranger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: The night before the Unknowing, Jon and Martin find themselves alone.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: stay with me [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750270
Comments: 23
Kudos: 124





	like water in your hands

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who've been reading this series since its inception (thank you!) likely remember that Jon was previously written as cis. My headcanons have changed in the meantime, and he is trans in this fic, and will be in any future fics set in this 'verse (of which I have none planned, but still). An author's note has been added to [between friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247957) to this effect.
> 
> The sex in this piece is not overly explicit; the one specific word used for Jon's genitalia is 'cock.'
> 
> Title from [Moon Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXqZ66XK3z8) by Phoebe Bridgers. I have listened to her new album, _Punisher,_ in its entirety approximately three times a week since it came out in June. I am also doing my second Magnus relisten since the beginning of the pandemic alone. This, as you might have guessed, is the result. Enjoy! (And stream _Punisher._ I am begging you.)

* * *

He can’t let him stay here alone. Of course he can’t.

Jon being Jon, he had mumbled something about wanting to take the night to _prepare himself,_ to _muster his strength_ or some other vague, lofty bullshit like that. In reality, Martin knew, what this meant was that he would spend one last night on the sad little cot in his office, more than likely staring at the ceiling and getting no sleep at all before they set off for Great Yarmouth in the morning.

 _They,_ as in the others; _they,_ as in everyone but Martin.

All this, Martin had quickly realised, meant that if he went home from work tonight, and Jon, Tim, Basira, and Daisy left for the museum tomorrow morning—and then didn’t come back—then this would be his last chance to see Jon. Ever. And that was…unthinkable. Unbearable.

So: ‘No,’ he’d said, as soon as Jon finished mumbling. The others had already left: Tim was planning to get quite drunk, or so Martin had overheard, and he didn’t doubt the girls would be happy to join him. But Jon, in typical fashion, had stayed at his desk for hours after ‘closing time,’ as though such a concept had any meaning these days; and Martin, in typical fashion, had stayed too. He’d finally cracked when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, reading the same paragraph of a statement over and over and over again, and had come in to check on Jon, mildly horrified but not at all surprised to find him still awake and typing busily away.

Now Jon is looking at him, bewildered, from behind his reading glasses. ‘What?’

‘No,’ Martin repeats. ‘You’re not gonna stay here alone. I’ll stay with you.’

‘Martin, I—There’s no need for that,’ Jon protests. ‘I’ve been sleeping here alone for months now. I’ll be fine.’ He checks his watch: ‘My God, it’s late; you should get home. Is the Night Tube—?’

‘I don’t care,’ Martin says firmly. ‘I’m staying here. With you.’

‘Where will you sleep?’ Jon challenges him.

‘I used to live here too, you know,’ Martin fires back. ‘My old cot is still kicking around somewhere. And I don’t see _you_ sleeping much tonight,’ he adds pointedly. ‘I don’t know why you’d expect _me_ to be able to.’

‘Because you’re not—’

‘Not going with you? D’you think that makes me feel _better,_ Jon? D’you think I’m _excited_ to send _all of my friends_ off to their very likely deaths bright and early tomorrow morning? Oh, I can’t wait to stay here and do busywork for Elias while imagining you being skinned alive by Nikola Orsinov and her minions,’ Martin says bitterly. ‘My best friends, my _only_ friends, and the—’

He falls silent, his cheeks heating.

‘The what?’ Jon asks.

‘Nothing.’ Martin’s fists are clenched at his sides; he takes a deep breath. ‘So no, Jon, _I_ don’t plan on sleeping much either tonight. I’m staying. Nothing you can say is going to change my mind. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ says Jon.

Martin looks at him, surprised. He’s never known Jon to relent so easily. ‘O…kay?’ he repeats, suspicious.

‘Okay,’ Jon says simply. He takes off his reading glasses and rubs his eyes, sighing. ‘You’re a grown man. You can make your own decisions. I know I made a…big one _for_ you, by asking you to stay,’ he says, pre-empting Martin’s indignant interjection. He looks up at him, his eyes slightly unfocussed without the glasses. ‘But please believe me, Martin,’ he says, his voice softening. ‘I’m doing it to keep you safe.’

‘I’ll believe that when this is all over.’

Jon sighs again. ‘Fair enough.’

There follows an awkward silence in which Martin isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He shuffles his feet, wondering if Jon will be content to let him stay as long as he leaves him alone, which is rather not the point of staying at all, and he’s about to make some kind of announcement to this effect when Jon reaches down to the bottom drawer of his desk, rummages about, and emerges with a bottle of whisky.

‘Seeing as you’re staying,’ Jon says, ‘can I offer you a drink?’

Martin gapes. ‘Where did _that_ come from?’

‘The deep Archives,’ Jon says with a shrug. ‘I gather even Gertrude needed some Dutch courage on occasion.’ He surveys the bottle, rather dusty: ‘Don’t know if it’s any good. I know piss-all about whisky. Still—’ He brandishes it wryly. ‘D’you want some?’

‘I don’t really drink,’ Martin says apologetically—and then stops, remembering their circumstances. ‘But, ah, what the hell. Sure.’

‘Right.’ Jon casts about on his desk for vessels and ends up splashing scotch into two empty mugs. He hands one to Martin and raises it in a toast. ‘To…’

‘To Nikola,’ Martin suggests.

Jon wrinkles his nose. ‘Elias?’

‘Eugh, no. To…Gertrude, may she rest in peace.’

‘She wouldn’t like that. To Danny Stoker?’

‘Bet you he’s getting all kinds of toasts down the pub right now. To Jane Prentiss?’

‘Haven’t I given her enough?’ Jon protests, gesturing with his scarred right hand.

‘Touché. Well. Ah.’ Martin clears his throat. ‘How about…to you, Jon. Without whom…’

‘We’d never have gotten into this mess?’

‘We’d have no hope of getting out of it,’ Martin corrects.

Jon ducks his head, embarrassed. ‘I think that’s a bit of a stretch. I—ah. To you, Martin, for—for being here. For…staying.’

It might be Martin’s imagination; it might be wishful thinking; but he swears that Jon means more than just tonight. ‘Thanks,’ he says softly. ‘Cheers.’

They clink their mugs and drink. As always happens, Martin’s face contorts with displeasure as soon as the alcohol crosses his tongue. He swallows with difficulty and sets the cup down, wiping his mouth: ‘Ugh. Not for me.’

‘That’s rather nice, actually,’ says Jon, taking another sip. ‘More for me, I s’pose.’ He fills his mug again and then stands abruptly. ‘Martin, I’m so sorry, how rude of me—I’ve just realised you’re still standing. This isn’t a performance review.’ He gives a small, awkward laugh. ‘Shall we, ah—is there anywhere more comfortable where we could…pass the wee hours? Because I think you’re right; I don’t expect either of us are in much of a state to sleep.’

‘Um, sure,’ says Martin. ‘There’s a squashy old couch in the Archives, I sort of adopted it as mine when I was staying here. We could go find that?’

‘Lovely. Lead the way,’ Jon pronounces. Martin could swear he’s already loosened up with about a shot and a half of Glenfiddich in him. It’s…very sweet.

‘Right,’ says Martin, clearing his throat. ‘Follow me.’

* * *

It doesn’t take long to find the couch; Martin still remembers the way. He has a strange, dizzy sense of déjà vu: when he lived here he had always imagined, in some bizarre fantastic circumstance, leading Jon to this same couch after hours, and, and—The rest of this fantasy is impossible to think about, with Jon right behind him, the whisky bottle clanking softly against the mug in his hand. His other hand rests lightly, so lightly, on Martin’s shoulder, trusting him to lead the way.

Martin should know by now to be more careful what he wishes for.

They find the couch, and Martin sits down heavily, exhaling a long, tired breath. Jon perches at the other end, kicking off his shoes and tucking his knees up under him, his long, slender, awkward feet. His socks are gray wool, threadbare. Martin’s heart breaks just a little.

‘You’re sure you don’t want any more of this?’ asks Jon, pouring himself another shot. Martin shakes his head, and watches the way Jon’s jaw tightens as he throws it back, the hard line of his mouth. The alcohol serves a singular purpose; he is not enjoying himself.

Martin doesn’t want to watch this, suddenly: Jon getting himself drunk on purpose, trying to…what? Forget what’s coming? Forget that it’s because of him? He leans his head back and closes his eyes. He hears Jon pouring another drink, swallowing it, exhaling hard.

After a long time, there is a _clink_ as Jon sets the bottle down. Martin can tell that it’s empty. He hears Jon sighing, and the creak of the couch as he shifts position. He imagines him curling still tighter into himself, like a cat with its head and tail tucked in, self-protective.

‘Martin,’ Jon says. His voice is soft, hesitant—nervous.

Martin opens his eyes. ‘Mm?’

Jon looks at him, his gaze steady, serious. ‘I need to tell you something.’

Martin’s heart sinks. ‘What is it?’ he asks.

Jon takes a deep breath, and then the words spill from him. ‘A year or two ago, after—after Jane Prentiss, I was…I was in a bad place. You know that. You—remember, I’m sure.’

‘Yeah,’ Martin says softly. ‘I do.’

‘And I—I found myself behaving… _oddly,_ because of the stress I was under. Or _thought_ I was under. Or both.’ Jon clears his throat, clearly struggling to get the words out, and Martin is growing more and more frightened of whatever it is he can’t bring himself to say.

‘If you’re trying to confess to stalking all of us, we already know,’ Martin says. ‘And, ah…we forgive you. Or at least _I_ do. You…weren’t yourself. It’s okay.’

But Jon is shaking his head vigorously. ‘That was stupid of me—of course it was; I don’t know what I was thinking—well, actually I do; I thought one of you had murdered Gertrude, or all of you had, and you were trying to pin it on me. Which, ah, _did_ wind up being the case, except it was Elias, which is quite frankly very typical and I’m surprised it didn’t occur to me any sooner. But anyway. You know all that. _Anyway,’_ he repeats, as though trying to shake himself awake, ‘that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you.’

‘What is it, then?’ Martin prompts him gently. His heart is racing.

‘You know that I—that I _don’t,’_ Jon says, looking intently at Martin. ‘I don’t…Relationships. People. Sex. Is not my strong suit. _Are_ not? But—but last year, after Jane, after everything—I was under a great deal of stress. A _great_ deal. And I—I slept with Tim, Martin,’ he expels at last. ‘Well— _slept with_ is a strong word, even, really—it was one time, it was in the Archive. I was standing up. We were both dressed. It was—it was nothing. Stress relief. My version of Gertrude’s secret stash, I suppose. It happened once,’ he repeats, and he won’t look Martin in the eye anymore. ‘One time. That’s all.’

‘But I know that,’ Martin blurts out, surprised into speaking. ‘He—he told me. Not…right after it happened, or anything, and kind of by accident, but he told me.’

‘You _knew?’_ Jon blanches. ‘Does—does _everyone_ know? Oh, God, did he _tell everyone?’_

‘Not everyone,’ Martin hurries to assure him. ‘Just me, and Sasha’—he winces, and carries on quickly—‘and Rosie, and Diana from the library. And a couple of blokes from Police Records who he was wooing at the time. But it was a long time ago!’ he adds, seeing Jon’s face grow more panicked with each word he speaks. ‘And everyone was really pissed. I expect no one really paid it much mind.’ _Except me,_ he adds silently.

‘What was that?’ Jon asks.

‘What?’

‘You said something else.’

‘No,’ Martin says nervously. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did,’ Jon insists. ‘You said, _Except me._ I…What do you mean, Martin?’

‘Just that I—I remembered,’ Martin says weakly. ‘Don’t know why, but I did. That’s all.’

But Jon just _looks_ at him, his dark eyes wide and intent, and Martin doesn’t know if his whole Compulsion thing works without speaking but it certainly feels like it might, because he finds himself saying, in a voice so soft he can hardly hear it, ‘Tim didn’t want to tell me. But we were drinking— _they_ were drinking—and playing a game, and it came up, and Sasha basically spilled the beans. Tim was upset. He didn’t want me to know, but he was—he was a real sport about it, once it came out.’

‘Why?’ Jon asks, and his voice, too, has grown hushed. ‘Why didn’t he want you to know?’

Martin feels like he’s going to start crying. If this were any other night, he expects he _would_ just have broken down and forced the conversation to end right here, avoiding any future mention of it for the rest of their working relationship and stridently convincing himself that this conversation had never happened at all.

But it’s tonight. It’s tonight, and soon—he glances at his watch; _very_ soon—it will be tomorrow; and tomorrow Jon is leaving. After tomorrow, Martin might never see him again. The weight of that strikes him again, thudding into his chest, leaving him breathless.

‘Because I was jealous,’ he says, his voice very small. ‘But—but it was okay. I knew it was stupid of me to, to get upset. Tim apologised, and, and—actually, ah, I slept with him too, it was kind of an apology, he was really nice about the whole thing but obviously that just made me feel worse—and he even—he—oh, God.’

Martin remembers exactly what Tim had done for him: he had let Martin pretend that he was Jon, that it was Jon fucking him, Jon touching him, Jon wanting him. And Martin had cried in his arms, hollowed-out by the knowledge that this was it, this was as close as he would ever get to the real thing, to Jon himself.

He can’t tell that to Jon. The very thought makes his stomach shrivel. He bows his head; he can’t even look at him; he’s said too much, he knows he has, and he doesn’t even have the excuse of alcohol. He _is_ crying now, and he hates himself for it, hates the feeble tears that drip hot onto his hands, folded tightly in his lap.

Jon is very quiet. Martin stares at his hands and cries in silence and waits for Jon to walk out. Maybe, he thinks desperately, maybe it would be for the best if he left now and didn’t come back from the wax museum; and then he hates himself for that, too.

But: finally, finally, Jon speaks.

‘Martin,’ he says, quiet, so quiet. ‘Martin, I…You slept with Tim?’

Martin nods. He can’t bring himself to speak right now.

‘You slept with Tim…because _I_ slept with Tim. Because you were…jealous. Of _me?’_ Jon sounds much more sober now, and the incredulity in his voice is genuine.

‘No,’ Martin says to his hands. ‘Of Tim. Because he slept with you.’

‘Because he slept with me,’ Jon repeats, in a murmur. ‘I don’t…I…’

‘I was jealous,’ Martin says, his voice breaking, ‘because—because I liked you, Jon, and I still do. No— _God—_ because I…because I love you, Jon, and I have for a long time. For years now.’ He is dizzy, there is nothing to do but keep talking. ‘And I hoped—it was silly of me, but I still hoped—I hoped that if you ever needed… _that…_ or, or wanted _that_ from someone…I hoped you might…I hoped you might pick me.’

‘Martin. Oh, Martin,’ Jon whispers.

‘What?’ Martin looks up. Tears blur his vision, but he sees with a start that Jon is looking at him, right at him, his gaze clear and focussed and _sorry._ He is looking at Martin as though he has never seen his face before.

‘What?’ he repeats, urgently, certain that Jon is going to break out in laughter or burst into rage. ‘You don’t have to say anything, you don’t have to—I know it’s stupid, it’s _inappropriate,_ it’s—I just needed you to know,’ he says. ‘Before tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Jon repeats; and his composure breaks utterly. His face falls, that taut, quivering look, and he slides from the couch and drops to his knees at Martin’s feet. He clasps both of Martin’s hands in his. ‘Forgive me,’ he asks him. ‘Forgive me, Martin, please.’

‘What? For what?’ Martin has gone breathless. He stares down at Jon, at his thin, scarred face, forever tight with nerves and guilt. How he loves him. How he wishes he could take it all away. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Yes, I have,’ Jon insists. ‘The way I’ve treated you, it—it pains me, Martin, it hurts me _so much_ to think of the way I used to speak to you. The way I still do, sometimes. Old habits, and, and paranoia, and—and idiocy. Sheer idiocy on my part. I’ve been a boor to you, and I’m so, so sorry. You’ve deserved none of it. None at all.’

‘Except when I filed the Velasquez statement under Rivera and no one could find it for eight weeks,’ Martin suggests, too baffled by the flood of contrition to form a serious response. ‘Or when I accidentally chucked that _very generous_ cheque from the Usher Foundation in the recycling bin and tried to pretend it had got lost in the post.’ He gives a short laugh. ‘Shall I go on?’

‘All right,’ Jon concedes, something dazed in his voice. ‘All right, yes, perhaps you deserved a dressing-down or two. But _that doesn’t make it all right,’_ he persists, fixing Martin with that depthless gaze once again. ‘I’ve been—I’ve been awful to you. And now—knowing this, what you’ve just told me—oh, God, that makes it all so much worse.’

‘Sorry,’ Martin murmurs reflexively, looking down again. Leave it to him.

‘No, no!’ Jon says, fervent, and he reaches up to take Martin’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look at him. ‘That’s not what I meant! God, I truly could not cock this up any further, could I? I’m not—I don’t _do this._ I’m starting to think there’s a reason for that. More than one, even. But—but what I am _trying,_ and thus far failing abjectly, to say is that…I… _like you_ too, Martin. I have for a long time now. It’s just taken me even longer to see it for what it is.’

A small sound escapes Martin’s lips. ‘Do you mean that?’ he asks, hesitant, when he can form words again. ‘You’re not—you’re not just saying that?’

A frown of total confusion appears on Jon’s face. ‘Why would I do that?’

Memories of not one, but several exes flash through Martin’s head, and he winces. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Well, no,’ says Jon, frowning deeper, his hand still cupping Martin’s chin. ‘Of course I’m not just saying it. I mean it.’

‘Oh,’ Martin says softly. ‘Oh.’

He can feel himself about to cry again. Jon is looking at him with such concern, as though he’s got absolutely no idea what to do with him, and it’s so hopelessly endearing that a watery smile breaks across Martin’s face even as fresh tears begin to fall.

And this seems to bring Jon no small measure of relief; he smiles too, shy and hesitant, and then he asks, ‘Martin, may I—kiss you?’

Martin nods, unable to form words. Jon looks at him, a deep, close look, and then he leans up on his knees, and their lips meet.

It’s a breathless kiss, hesitant, wondering. Martin is still crying: Jon’s thumb finds his cheek, and swipes his tears away, and this only makes him cry more. Jon tastes like whisky, and his lips are chapped, and he’s not very good at this, and Martin doesn’t care.

Martin breaks the kiss too soon. ‘Come here,’ he says, needing Jon closer, needing him here.

Jon obliges, clambering back up to the couch and lying back, beckoning Martin to him. Martin hesitates: he’s much heavier than Jon, he doesn’t want to crush him. But Jon says, with the sweetest impatience in his voice, ‘Come here, Martin, you aren’t going to break me. And besides’—his voice wavers slightly—‘this might be our only…Our only chance.’

That makes up Martin’s mind. He straddles Jon and leans down to kiss him fiercely, sighing when Jon gives a little moan and wraps his arms around Martin’s back. Martin is growing hard against Jon’s thigh, and this makes him anxious immediately. He pulls back again, glances guiltily down at his erection: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—I can’t—’

‘I don’t mind,’ Jon says softly.

‘You’re sure? You aren’t just saying that? I don’t want to make you—’

‘Martin,’ Jon interrupts him, his voice clear and steady. ‘Kiss me again.’

Martin makes a soft noise, and obliges. When Jon begins to rock his hips, gently, hesitantly, against him, Martin moans against his mouth, and nips at Jon’s bottom lip. The high, desperate sound Jon makes in response is encouragement enough; Martin does it again. Now Jon is panting, his hands making small urgent movements on Martin’s back, and all this emboldens Martin to the point of asking, ‘Clothes off?’

 _‘Yes,’_ Jon whispers.

They undress quickly, almost frantically, their clothes tossed to the floor. Martin has always thought he would feel disgusting if he were ever to be naked around Jon. He’s come to terms with his body; he even likes it most of the time, with a few notable exceptions. But the extreme contrast between him and Jon—he is soft where Jon is bony, he is pale where Jon is dark, his skin is whole where Jon’s is scarred—has always made him afraid that he would feel big, and ungainly, and undesirable, if ever he had the chance to let Jon see him like this.

He finds now that quite the opposite is true. When Jon finishes tugging off his socks and looks up to see Martin, now fully bare before him, he takes a breath that sounds like the air has been punched from his lungs.

‘What?’ asks Martin, terrified.

‘Martin,’ Jon says. ‘My God, you’re beautiful.’ And he opens his arms like a plea.

Martin sits back down next to him, and lets their hands touch. ‘Can I? Would you let me—?’

‘Yes,’ Jon says. ‘Yes.’

Martin swallows through the tightness in his throat. ‘Come here.’

Jon straddles him; he is so light in Martin’s lap. Martin’s hand finds its way between his legs and he strokes him where he is softest, where he is growing wet, until Jon’s mouth falls open and his eyes roll back. ‘Oh,’ he says, _‘oh,_ oh,’ and Martin asks him, ‘More?’

‘Yes. I want you inside me. Please.’

Martin lifts him by the hips; he weighs practically nothing; he is inside him now, filling him easily. How often he has imagined this, how different it feels: how much better, how new.

Jon sucks in a breath, his arms tightening behind Martin’s head. The look on his face could be pleasure or pain. ‘Is that all right?’ Martin asks, soft, anxious. He could not bear to hurt him: not now, not like this.

‘Yes,’ Jon breathes, and kisses him.

Martin rocks his hips slowly. Jon shudders and cries out. ‘Can I touch you?’ Martin murmurs, and Jon nods frantically. Martin finds his cock and strokes it, gently at first, and then harder when Jon urges him: ‘More, more, please more.’

He touches him, feels his growing slickness, the way Jon tightens and moves around him. The noises he makes are astonished and tender and Martin wants to keep each one inside his chest. He can’t; so instead he wraps Jon in his arms, holds him as close as he possibly can.

‘It’s you,’ Martin whispers, ‘it’s you, Jon, it’s always been you.’

‘Martin,’ Jon murmurs. His head is thrown back; the long brown column of his throat works as his breathing grows shallower. ‘Martin, I’m so sorry, I wish I had—’

‘Shh,’ Martin tells him. ‘We’re here now. I’m here. I’ve got you, I’m here.’

He buries his face in Jon’s shoulder, bringing them closer, closer still, and he holds him as though he could stop time, as though he could keep him here forever.

‘Come for me,’ he says into Jon’s skin, ‘let me see you. I want to give this to you. I would give you anything, Jon, anything, anything.’ He is still murmuring _anything, anything_ when Jon cries out and his body arches and he comes apart in Martin’s arms.

Martin clasps Jon to him as he spills himself inside of him. He finds Jon’s mouth and they kiss, desperate, tender, the aftershocks trembling through them both. Martin thinks he tells him _I love you_ but he cannot be sure if he speaks the words out loud.

* * *

Later, after—they have dressed again, and pulled a blanket over themselves, and Jon is curled up atop him, his head pillowed on Martin’s chest. Martin strokes his hair, watching his own hand as it cards through the thick dark waves. Time feels suspended. Jon sighs in his arms.

‘I don’t know if you remember,’ Martin says, because it feels important, somehow, that Jon knows this, ‘but that time when we all went out for ice cream, for my—for my birthday? It was just after you started in the Archives. And, and you were telling us all about the—the _science_ of ice cream, the way emulsifiers work, and all that stuff. And Tim was rolling his eyes and complaining, and Sasha was trying to shush him, but I…I was listening. I heard every word you said. I _cared_ about it, all of it, because — because it interested you so much. Your eyes were all lit up, Jon; I’d never seen you smiling so big.’

‘I don’t remember,’ Jon admits, sheepish, lifting his head, ‘but I believe you. Emulsifiers—well, fluid chemistry—used to be a special interest of mine, and those things never really go away, do they? I hope I, ah—I hope I didn’t bore you.’

‘Not at all,’ Martin promises. _Anything,_ he thinks again; _anything, for you._

‘Good,’ Jon murmurs, and rests his head on Martin’s shoulder again. He yawns.

‘You should sleep. Before tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Jon repeats, and his brow knits.

‘No matter what happens—’ Martin begins.

‘We had this. We have this.’

‘Yes,’ Martin says softly. ‘We have this.’

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points if you caught the Moon Song lyrics, only slightly paraphrased, that I snuck into Martin’s dialogue, lmao. I can’t remember who on Twitter floated the idea of Jmart getting together right before the Unknowing and then getting split up in season 4, but whoever it was, they looked me directly in the eyes and stabbed me in the chest with a benevolent smile on their face. I am forever grateful.
> 
> Speaking of Twitter, you can find me [here](https://twitter.com/saintmontague)!


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